


Bespoke

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:45:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU--John works at a bespoke clothing shop owned by his sister and Sherlock is his favorite customer..  From an old prompt on the kinkmeme. Set pre-S1/early S1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John! Lunch?”

  
The man in question glanced up from the stack of pocket squares he had been folding and smiled. “Sorry, mate. I’ve got Himself coming in half an hour for a fitting on his new suit.” His hands were steady this time, at least, he noticed. The mention of Mister Holmes didn’t make him tremble like it used to, back when he was first assigned the notoriously difficult customer. “Bring me back a sandwich, though.”

  
Mitchell smirked and waggled his brows in an age-old expression of masculine teasing. “Got to get yourself all pretty before your boyfriend gets here, eh?”

  
“Oi! Fuck off,” John snapped, smiling. “I’ve just got a lot to get done first and you know how his appointments run long.” They shared a mutual eyeroll before Mitchell bid him goodbye and stepped out of the small, tastefully lit shop and into the throngs of Londoners and tourists going about their midday tasks. John gave up on the pocketsquares less than a minute later and let himself sink down into the chair behind the discrete counter. His sister’s shop was doing amazingly well, considering the current economic climate and cries of “austerity”, and he had been so thankful that she was able to work out a position for him at Watson and Halloran after his return from Afghanistan. She hadn’t even picked at him about his avoidance of medical work, just nodded when he muttered “I can’t, Harry… It’s just so much now…” and told him to be at the shop at seven the next morning to learn the ropes. That had been almost a year ago and now he had his own clients, his own waiting list for fittings and consultations… It was a far cry from Bart’s, from the RAMC, but it was a living and sometimes, he really enjoyed it.  

Especially Sherlock Day.

  
Mitchell had been the first to tease him about it, noticing how flustered John became when Sherlock was in for a consult or fitting. _Really, Johnny, he’s far nicer to you than he is to the rest of us. What’s got you so atwitter?_ John had just shrugged and busied himself writing out the rest of Sherlock’s order. Mitchell, damn his eyes, had figured it out in that breath. _Oh, you like ‘em tall and fit, eh? You know his family is dead posh, don’t you? Look but don’t touch with that one._

  
John had shrugged again and changed the subject, not bothering to deny it since that would only make things worse, but each of Sherlock’s—Mister Holmes, he corrected himself—visits had just seemed to drive that splinter further under his skin. He found himself making excuses to touch him just a little more—“I don’t think that lapel is lying quite right. Here, let me see if…ah, there we go. Ah, your tie is a bit crooked. There. All better, yes?”—and he found himself laughing more with Mister Holmes than he had in ages, since before he return from Afghanistan. The sharp chime of the shop door opening snapped him from his reverie and John put on his professional face, tugged the hem of his moddish jacket into place, and stepped around the end of the counter. “Mister Holmes,” he greeted, shaking hands with the object of his affection and desire. “Early day?”

  
Sherlock smiled thinly. He disdained small talk but seemed to make an exception when it came to John Watson, the proprietor’s brother and all around interesting man. “A bit, yes. Is that a problem?” He knew very well that it wasn’t; he had purposefully chosen the one-thirty appointment time (and the two after it—his fittings always did run long) specifically because Watson and Halloran had little, if any, customer traffic between the hours of one and three pm unless it was near a major holiday or society event.

  
“Not at all,” John laughed, seemingly surprised by Sherlock’s polite inquiry. “Your suit is ready for you in room three. Why don’t you go ahead and try it on and I’ll meet you in the fitting area?”

  
Sherlock nodded. “Were they able to do something about the stitching?” he asked over his shoulder, disappearing into the oak-doored private room at the back of the shop. “It was deplorable on the last one.”

  
“Mmm. I’ve been informed that that particular tailor was released from his position.”

  
“Good. Meth addicts make terrible tailors.”

  
“Meth…how did you…what?”

  
“Really, John,” Sherlock sighed, shedding his blue cambric ( _horrible, stiff, feels like it’s made of angry wasps_ ) and reaching for the startlingly white linen number hanging next to the suit. “The signs are all there. The stitching, how it went from neat and professional to sloppy and uneven. The marks of multiple attempts at pulling out bad stitches…”

“That doesn’t mean he was on meth!”

“The fact one of the Met’s drug dogs damn near took me down does. They found traces of it on the fabric, near the seams.” Sherlock stuck his head around the door and grinned at John’s open-mouthed expression. “I’m observant, not psychic.” John’s laugh earned a wink before Sherlock shut the door again and went for the suit.

John waited in the fitting room, doing his best not to look at the three mirrored walls. He knew that he was not a hideous troll but compared to Sherlock ( _Damn it, Mister Holmes! Keep calling him Sherlock in your head and it’s bound to slip aloud!_ )…well, he still wasn’t chopped liver but the years proclaimed themselves blatantly on John’s face. Not even forty yet and the crows’ feet were obvious, as were the small pock marks from his teen years, and deep frown and pain lines from…well, from his adulthood. Mister Holmes wasn’t conventionally attractive himself but John found himself thinking of him far more often than was proper for a client-professional relationship. Especially those long limbs. _God, he’s like a greyhound, isn’t he? All long lines and lean muscle and aristocratic bearing. I bet he’d be absolutely filthy in bed… Stop it, Watson! Man up! He’s a client!_ Besides, if he were to be even more honest with himself, he wanted far more than sex with the man. Holmes was intelligent, to say the least, and had a dry and oftentimes dark sense of humor, and never once spoke to him as if he were somehow less than human, like several of the more posh customers seemed prone to do. John would never admit how many times he’d conjured a fantasy of Holmes across from him at his small kitchen table, sharing conversation over dinner (in his fantasy, it was always something nicer than beans on toast or take away curry). And if those fantasies included a segue from the table to the sofa, then t the bed… Well, John was only human. He heard the door to room three open and then close; forcing his face into neutral lines, he looked up expectantly, waiting for Mister Holmes.

“Are you sure this fabric is the right choice?” Sherlock tugged at the sleeves of the jacket, frowning. “It’s wool.”

“Stop pulling at it; you’ll ruin the nap.” John gently but firmly shoved Holmes’ hands away from the lapels .

“It’s _wool_ , John. From sheep. _Sheep!_ ”

“Yes, very expensive sheep, too. What’s the matter with sheep and wool, anyway? You wear silk and I daresay the origins of that material are far less savory than this wool.” The suit fit perfectly and Holmes wore it as if he were born to do so. John kept fiddling, though, adjusting the waistband here, checking the break there, walking around to check the vents in the jacket. He caught Holmes’ raised brow in the mirror and smiled. “Well?”

“Sheep are odiferous creatures. “

“I promise you that the wool is washed before it is spun into thread and woven into fabric.” John shook his head in mild disbelief and came back ‘round in front of Holmes once more. “How does it feel?”

“How does it look?” He already knew, but he enjoyed hearing it.

“Perfect.” John cleared his throat and produced his little pad and pencil from his pocket. “Now, any alterations? How is the shirt? Your usual order of three?”

“Mmmm. One of them should be purple this time.” John had remarked, at their second consultation almost a year ago, that royal purple suited his coloring. Sherlock had decided against that particular scarf but the comment lingered in his thoughts.

John hesitated, remembering the scarf he had shown Holmes ages ago. “Let me get our sample book so you can select the shade.”

“No need. That royal purple you once showed me will do nicely.” Sherlock shrugged out of the jacket with an elegant motion. “I’ll meet you in front. I need gloves. And a hat.”  
John nodded again, scribbling nonsense in his pad so he wouldn’t stare. Only after Sherlock left did he remember to say that the color of that scarf wasn’t in their usual lot and replicating it… _Well, you’re a resourceful lad,_ his inner voice cut him off. _See what you can do._

Sherlock was waiting in the accessories section of the small shop. He had already selected three pairs of gloves in different leathers and colors and was frowning at a fourth. “Which do you think, John?”

“That depends on where andwhy you will be wearing them, really.”

“For work.” Sherlock shrugged. “And because I feel like it.”

“Ah.” John fingered the soft black leather pair still on the shelf. “These will provide more freedom of movement and allow for you to discern temperature and texture a bit more easily than those in your hand.”

“Why would I want to do that?” His brow crept even higher.

John felt his cheeks reddening as he sputtered. “Um, you told me that you’re a detective and I assumed, based on your descriptions of your job, that you would need to be able to, um—“  
Sherlock put him out of his misery. “Quite right, John. These, then.” He shoved the soft pair at him and threw the others back on the shelf. “I’m to attend a diplomatic function at the request of my brother this Saturday,” he said after a brief pause. “Will these do for a black tie event?”

“Gentlemen do not wear gloves at black tie events,” John replied primly. “But if you mean will they work with your Belstaf, yes. Just remember to take them off—and your coat—before entering the event- proper.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And are you applying for the position as my valet, John?” He received no response other than a dry chuckle. He made short work of selecting a hat and, on a whim, a handful of socks. John began to ring up his purchases on the pseudo-Victorian till as Sherlock said, “I’m to take Mycroft’s assistant as my date for the evening.”

“You sound as if you’d rather do anything else. Is she not a looker, then?”

“Women aren’t really my area.”

John felt his heart leap into his throat. _Bollocks. Way to give a bloke false hope!_ “Ah. That’s fine.”

“I know it is.”

“Shall I charge your account, then?”

“Mmm. Anthea is…lovely, I suppose, but I would much rather attend this travesty with someone I find interesting and attractive.”

John looked up to find himself the subject of a intense scrutiny. “Ah.”

The quiet stretched for long enough to be painful, then, “Well, I shall see you in a week for the fitting on my evening coat, then.”

“Um, right. Yes.” John handed the suit bag and the smaller bag of accessories across the counter and smiled as Holmes exited the store. “Oh, bloody Hell!”

Mitchell stuck his head around the door from the staff break area. “You know, that would have been the perfect time to say ‘Why don’t you take me, instead?’.”

“Shut up, Mitch. Give me my sandwich and just…shut up.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

John smiled absently at the gentleman purchasing an obscene number of ties _(Really, how many ascots, cravats and bowties does one man need? Maybe he’s outfitting a parade group? The Azure Tie Marchers_?) “Enjoy, sir. If they don’t fit, I’m sure they’ll ride up with wear.”

The man smiled, nodded, and gathered up his purchases, leaving John to sigh and rub his hand tiredly over his eyes. “Referencing classic British comedy,” a low, familiar voice intoned from somewhere near the haberdashery section. “ _Are You Being Served?_ seems a bit obvious, John.”

The warm, sharp tingle in the pit of his belly made John want to roll his eyes. He felt like a bloody sixth-former, getting butterflies around his crush. _And that’s what it is, isn’t it? A crush. Christ, Watson. You’re almost forty, a trained doctor, a former soldier… either ask him out for drinks or get over it!_ “Not a lot of options in the menswear humor line, I’m afraid,” he admitted, smiling as Holmes came into sight. He was being very careful not to think of him as ‘Sherlock,’ not to allow that familiarity the chance to pop over into reality. Even in his fantasies, he avoided the name, settling for endearments or just nothing at all. “How was the gala…ball…hootenany…shindig…thing?” Smooth. Very smooth.

“It was painfully dull.” A pause, then, “Hootenany and shindig?”

“Long day,” John muttered, bending his head to hide his blush, pretending to rifle through order slips. “I’m sorry, but did I miss a fitting appointment today? I don’t have you on my schedule until a week from Thursday.”

“I need new gloves.” Holmes turned away sharply and all but leapt to the shelves, leaving John to follow in his wake. “Had a bit of a disagreement with my landlord on Sunday and I’m currently seeking a new flat.” He gave John a sideways look that made his toes curl. “Know of anyone looking for a new situation?”

“If you only knew,” John muttered under his breath, retrieving the wooden bins of gloves in Holmes’ size. Rising from his crouch, he found himself pinned by a cool, penetrating gaze. “Black, brown, blue or possibly burgundy?”

“Burgundy? How gauche.” He smirked faintly and John couldn’t help but smile. “Black, of course. As I was saying, had a bit of a row with my landlord and my new gloves were torn in the process.”

“I’ve had a row or two before and my gloves always survived.”

“I had to rescue my experiment.” Holmes’ tone did not invite further discussion and the conversation turned to gloves and how there wasn’t a pair exactly like the ruined ones. “Those vents won’t sit right on my knuckles,” he murmured. “I‘ve very long fingers.”

“I…um, yes. I mean, you’re a tall man, so it stands to reason that your fingers are long, too.” John couldn’t meet Holmes’ eyes for the rest of the brief visit, ringing him up quickly and bidding him a cordial farewell. “Oh, bloody bollocks,” John groaned as the door shut behind Holmes. “It’s like I’m sixteen again!”

“For fuck’s sake, Watson! Ask him ‘round for a drink! Put me out of your misery!” Mitchell looked up from his closing duties to give John a fond, exasperated look. “The worst he can say is no.”

“And he can get me fired! He spends more money here than any of our other clients and if he tells Harry to do it, she’d have to let me go. Look, mate, my flat isn’t much but it’s mine. And I like to eat so the pay packet is nice.”

“He won’t get you fired. At worst, he’d switch to me or Dave.”

John hated that thought almost as much as the idea of being sacked. “I’m an adult. I just need to get out more, get over this stupid thing.”

“What stupid thing?”

Both Mitchell and John looked up, startled. Holmes smiled thinly. “It seems your chime is broken. I left my sunglasses…” he trailed off, staring intently at John. “You look as if you’re trying not to choke.”

John did choke then, as Mitchell jabbed his ribs with none-too-subtley, making him gasp and shout at the same time. “I’m fine,” he coughed. “Fine!”

“Mmm. Yes. My sunglasses…” Holmes glanced towards the gloves and then at the counter. “Have you seen them?”

“No,” John admitted, stepping out of Mitchell’s range. “I don’t recall you even wearing them earlier.”

Holmes kept staring, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. “Well, if you’re sure… I suppose I’ll be off, then.”

“We were just closing up,” Mitchell said suddenly, almost too loudly. “Going for a pint at the Queen’s Cock after. Fancy a pint, Mister Holmes?”

John wanted to sink through the floor. He felt his ears going red and hot as he said, as stiffly as he could, “Mitchell, Mister Holmes is a customer, not one of your pub quiz mates.”

Holmes smiled an odd, stretched grin that seemed to be a mimic of an expression meant for someone else’s face. “Thank you but no. I have an appointment to keep with an old acquaintance.” He nodded once, sharply, to each man and turned in a swirl of coat tails and left, the door shushing softly behind him.

“Mitchell, you won’t know how, where or when, but I’m going to kill you.”

Mitchell just laughed. “Look on the floor.”

“What?”

“Look down.”

John did as he was bade and frowned. “His sunglasses.”

“Mmhmm. I will bet you any amount of money that he came back to ask you out and panicked when he saw me.” Mitchell grinned like a kid in a candy shop. “Call his mobile. It’s on his customer info card.”

John was sorely tempted. Holmes was likely not even off the block yet and he could wait while Mitchell went on to the pub. He’d let Holmes into the darkened shop and give him the sunglasses and—“I’ll call him when the shop opens tomorrow,” John said firmly, locking the glasses into the drawer beneath the till. “Come on, first round’s on me.”

Sherlock didn’t regret the loss of the cheap sunglasses—they were from the pound shop near his flat and had no sentimental value. He was just irritated that John was so blindingly thick… He sighed and watched from a safe distance as John and the other shop clerk headed in the opposite direction, towards the pub and away from him.


	3. Chapter 3

 

John closed his eyes and let his head fall back to rest against the padded banquet. The pub was loud, in the throes of a stag night competing with a virulently pink clad hen 'do (no relation to one another, these parties, but John could see there would be considerable overlap with the groomsmen and bridesmaids, wink wink nudge nudge, before the end of the evening). Put a pub quiz on top of it and it just added that extra bit of eye of newt to the bubbling cauldron of his migraine. Beside him, Mitchell was chatting up a stray bridesmaid, the sole non-blonde, non-willowy one, so John took the opportunity to just breathe and try to stave off the impending headache.

_You should have just asked me out,_ his imaginary Sherlock murmured. _We could have left here by now, gone back to mine..._

_Mine is closer. You live on Baker Street. That's at least half an hour by foot. I'm just down the way, not even ten minutes._ He smiled to himself and took a peek to make sure Mitchell was still occupied before sinking back into his fantasy. _If I had asked you out and had the balls to ask you back to mine, you gorgeous creature, I wouldn't want to dally about for half an hour._

_You're afraid that I'd have time to change my mind._ Even in his fantasies, John sighed, Holmes was deuced perceptive.

_Maybe I'm afraid that I'd be the one changing my mind._

_And miss out on the chance to finally discover if my skin is as warm and smooth as you think? To see...well, to see everything, to see if my ego is backed up by other attributes?_

“I hardly think ego is an attribute.”

“What's that, mate?”

John didn't realize that he had spoken aloud until Mitchell replied He opened his eyes to see his friend smeared in lipstick, looking a bit starry-eyed, with the brunette, cutely chubby bridesmaid hanging on his arm. “Go on, Mitch. I can make it back to mine alright,” he said, laughing a bit. He tossed some notes onto the table to cover his own drink and a few of Mitchell's and slapped him on the shoulder. “Don't be late tomorrow. You have Good Ol' Gropey Hands first fitting.” He ignored Mitchell's groan of frustration and headed for the doors, mentally chastising himself for fantasizing about Holmes like that, about letting it slip into reality. _Thank God it was something innocuous and not begging for cock or something!_ He stopped at the corner, waiting for traffic to clear the zebra crossing, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a low, amused voice sounded near his ear.

“You look a bit lost.”

“Sher—Mister Holmes,” John corrected mid-breath. The crossing light switched to green but neither man moved. “Um, just on my way home.”

“Where's your friend? Mitchell, was it?”

“Ah, he's back at the pub with a bridesmaid.” John shrugged, unable to unsee his mental image of Holmes sprawled on the old blue duvet gracing his bed just a few minutes away. _God, he'd look amazing against it. It'd take an act of parliament to keep me from licking him all over._

“Ah.” He paused, then smiled a little. “You can call me Sherlock. You're off duty and I'm just out for a walk.” He looked both ways and mimicked John's earlier shrug before stepping out into the street, apparently fully expecting John to follow him into the light traffic.

After a moment, he did, dodging the back of a slow-moving lorry, catching up with Sherlock on the other side of the street. “Don't you live a bit far from here? I mean, when I send out your invoice, it's to Baker Street.” He felt himself blushing under Sherlock's amused, intense look. “I mean--”

“I enjoy walking,” he said, cutting off John's ramble. “Do you live far?” He already knew the answer to that—John walked to work (he could tell from the condition of the man's shoes) and, despite his psychosomatic limp, the distance wasn't enough to cause the pain to flare, at least not significantly.

“Not very. Um, we found your sunglasses, after you left.”

“Good, good. I'll come 'round in the morning to pick them up.”

John nodded, slowing as they reached his block. “I can never keep track of sunglasses. I kept losing the pairs I received in care packages when I was in Afghanistan.” That, apparently, was the right thing to say. Sherlock began asking him questions about his service, about his free time in Afghanistan, nothing too personal or intense, and as they reached the front steps of John's building, they were chatting about travel and places they've been. “I'm fairly certain that I haven't seen the same Greece that you have,” John laughed, leaning against the decorative gate, meant to give the modest block of bedsits and one bedroom flats a classy, pseudo-Victorian appearance. “I stayed in hostels and even slept on rooftops a few times.”

“That sounds imminently preferable to the stuffy hotels and formal dinners I had to slog through,” Sherlock retorted, arching a brow. “It's always the same, whether it's Greee or Italy or Poland or even the States... the hotels all look alike, the food is all alike, the people...” He shuddered theatrically. “If I see one more middle aged affair involving a personal assistant, I'll scream.”

John rolled his eyes theatrically. “I'd like to give that a go, the posh hotel and fancy service. You get tired of cold showers, sharing a shoebox of a room with six Aussie ruggers who never sleep, and eating dubious food from street vendors. The charm wears off, especially when you're out of uni.” Sherlock was suddenly much closer, John noticed, just half an arm's reach away. He was staring down at John with an unreadable expression, sending tremors of want through the doctor. “Well, I'd best let you get on with your walk then, Mister Holmes. Sherlock.” He felt caution slipping away fast and knew that, if he was given half a chance, he'd ask him out. _Man up, Watson! You're thirty bloody eight!_

“Mmm. Goodnight, John. I'll stop by in the morning for my glasses.” Sherlock didn't move, though, and the streetlight shadowed his gaze.

John muttered, “Fuck it,” and stepped closer. “Think you might like to go out for drinks sometime?” When Sherlock smirked, John felt his stomach drop, sure of the negative response coming.

“That would be nice, thank you,” Sherlock replied, stepping back and nodding once, a mockery of a courtly bow. “We'll work out details later.”

John nodded, feeling torn between nausea and doing a childish happy dance as Sherlock turned sharply and strode back the way they had come, like a man on a mission. It only occurred to him, as he unlocked the door to let himself into the foyer, that his invitation had been accepted in a businesslike manner. “Christ... did he just accept to be polite?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Johnny, I don’t believe you!” Harry crowded John into the employeed break room and shut the door firmly behind them. “Mitchell told me you have a date with a client!”

“Um, yes, I suppose it could be a date…” He rubbed his fingers over his tired eyes and tried not to grin at the memory of the note that had been waiting for him when he returned from lunch that day. Sherlock had not been by in the morning as he said he would be but, according to the note, he’d had a good reason. _Serial killer. Messy business. Got the sunglasses from Mitchell. Drinks at seven? Meet you at close. Refuse to go to Queen’s Cock as I do not need to think of Her Majesty with one, either rooster or penis._ “It’s drinks, Harry. Not dinner with the Prime Minister.”

“You hate Cameron.”

“The example stands.” The chime for the door sounded and they both looked up. “I need to get back on the floor. I promise I won’t do anything to make Holmes take his business elsewhere.”

Harry narrowed her eyes for a moment, then sighed. “Fine, fine. Though if you _do_ end up exploring your options, as it were, at least make it good so he has a reason to keep giving us his custom!”

“Harry!” John could only stare, agape, as his sister flung open the break room door and headed out into the shop proper. In truth, he was more than a bit nervous and had, in the hours since Mitchell had slid him the folded, heavy, expensive paper with a smirk and a wink, gone through several variations on what the evening might bring. Sherlock might grow bored within minutes and leave him with the bill. He might find Sherlock to be insufferable and spend all evening looking for a way out. Sherlock might not show, or he might show and declare the whole thing a jape, something to relieve boredom. Or, the variation to which he kept returning, the one that made his heart thump a bit harder and his stomach flutter and, frankly, ruined the line of his trousers: the evening goes fantastically, they have a wonderful time and go back to one of their flats, and…well, John stopped himself, taking a deep breath and following Harry into the shop.  
“You’re in trouble,” Mitchell sing-songed as he passed close. “Ms. Watson is in the office with the bloke from the fabric supplier. Something about you special ordering a dye lot?”

“Huh? Oh! Blast! That purple for the shirt!”

“Mmmm. Not even shagging the bloke and you’re already buying him expensive gifts.” Mitchell slida box of pocket squares into it’s proper slot and winked at John. “The rep is pretty pissed.”

“It’s just dye,” John groaned, but he knew that it was more than that. He wasn’t as well-versed in fashion and design as Mitchell or his sister, but he knew that what he had asked (albeit without thinking) the company to do was not as simple as dumping a packet of dye into the wash and throwing the fabric in after. “Maybe they have something in a different material but a similar color that Holmes would like just as well.”  
Mitchell snorted but swallowed whatever other reply he was about to make when the door to the office open and a tight-lipped Harry came out, following the man from the supplier. John busied himself entering the day’s orders into the computer. Harry loomed before him a few moments later. “John Watson,” she said, voice low and tight, “you are going to give me a stroke before I’m fifty, did you know that?”

“I’m a doctor, Harry, and it’s impossible for me to cause you to have a—“ he trailed off at her grim expression. “Right. So…I’m guessing this is about the dye lot?”

“You didn’t charge Holmes for the etra work it would take so that means the shop is going to eat the cost.” She leaned in closer and added, “We’re doing well, Johnny, but not so well as this won’t be a significant hit to our profit. Sergio and Collins are not cheap and while they’re willing to do this based on the sample of wool you provided, but it will be dear. The least they’ll make is a single bolt. I convinced the rep that this was a limited run, a one off for a special customer and not a standing order for some new line we’re creating in-house.” John breathed an audible sigh of relief at that. A standing order would be…insanely expensive, he realized, his mouth a bit dry. Harry wasn’t done yet, though. “This will have to come out of your pay, Johnny.”

He nodded, wincing inwardly. Harry would do it as little per cheque as she could get away with but it would still be a significant hit to his funds, funds that were close to the bone as it is. He realized, with a pang of regret, that he would have to turn Sherlock down if any future dates were suggested. He had enough for a few drinks that evening but from there on out, he was going to be close to skint till the bolt of fabric and the proprietary dye lot was paid off. “Right, well, it’s only fair,” he said, nodding, a bit breathless. Harry stared at him a moment longer, looking as if she wanted to say something else, but instead she just shook her head and sighed, returning to her office with a stiff spine and set shoulders, obviously annoyed.

John ignored Mitchell’s sidelong looks of curiosity and finished the order entries. It was just past six and almost time to begin closing, which set the butterflies in John’s stomach cartwheeling and somersaulting in nervousness. “Mitch, I’m going to go tidy up the stockroom, alright?”

“Nervous?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“You know what I mean, you great twat!”

John waved over his shoulder and let himself into the stock room. He barely heard the door chime several minutes later, as he tidied the racks of sample fabrics and ready-made accessories, but Harry’s voice, high and shrill, drew him back out into the shop, still holding a tie and a derby. “Oh, Mister Holmes, so good of you to stop by,”

 _Sherlock?_ John shoved the tie and hat into the nearest rack and came further out into the shop only to stop short. It wasn’t his date for the evening that Harry was talking to, but a tall, thin man with a sharp nose and an bland smile. He bore little resemblance to Sherlock but there was enough there to tell John that the two men were related somehow.

“It’s been over a year since your last fitting,” Harry fluttered, gesturing to Mitchell, who barely hid his eye roll before disappearing into the break room for what John knew to be the small tea service the shop kept on hand for especially posh clients. “As we’ve had no complaints on your orders, I trust they’re suiting you?”

The other Mister Holmes’ smile grew teeth. “Yes, hm. Yes, they are fine.” His eyes roamed the shop and lit on John. “I’ve come in person to request a rather special service, Miss Watson. I am in need of several new wardrobe pieces and will be requiring a proper fitting. I wish for these fittings to occur at my office as my schedule is quite a busy one.” His eyes never left John the entire time he spoke.

“Ah, well, we don’t… I mean…” Harry followed the direction of his gaze and found John. “John! John, come meet Mister Holmes!”

“I believe that you know my brother, Mister Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes? Yes, I know him.” John shook Holmes’ hand and felt as if he were being examined like a bug on a pin. “He’s one of our best clients.”

“I imagine so. Miss Watson, schedule a fitting for me tomorrow at one pm. We’ll pencil in the rest after this initial visit.” He eyed John again, sweeping a gaze from head to toe and back again. “Have a good evening, Mister Watson. My assistant will pick you up tomorrow at half past twelve and return you to the shop once we’ve finished.”

John could only nod dumbly as Holmes turned and strode from the shop, an attractive, dark haired woman John hadn’t noticed before at his heels. The chime, fixed now, jangled merrily. “What,” Mitchell said, tray clutched tightly in his hands, “the frilly hell was that?”

“Recon,” John muttered, frowning. “Harry, for Christ’s sake, you were acting like a virgin on her wedding night!”

“Mycroft Holmes spends ten times more than his brother does, John,” she snapped, sounding shaky and relieved at the same time. “His orders last season alone paid off the shop’s space!” She raked her fingers through her dark blonde curls and shook her head. “Fuck me, I need a drink.”

John winced but didn’t say anything—he knew it wouldn’t do any good—and stood aside as Harry headed back to her office. “It’s seven,” Mitchell said, sounding a bit nervous as well. “Your date’s going to be here any second.”

“Fuck,” John muttered. “I look like Hell, too.” He tugged on his tie and glanced up as that damned chime sounded again.

“I think you look just fine.” Sherlock raised a brow at him from the doorway. “Something’s the matter.”

“No, everything is fine!” He smiled at Mitchell. “You got the till?”

“Have fun,” Mitchell said, winking.

John felt his cheeks redden. “Come on, then,” he said, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “You don’t want to go to the Queen’s Cock… you have somewhere in mind?”

Sherlock nodded once, opening the door for John. “How do you feel about Italian?”


	5. Chapter 5

John breathed a covert sigh of relief as Sherlock held the door open and motioned for him to enter the small Italian restaurant. "Nice place," he commented, the pang of nervousness he thought he had quashed threatening to poke it's ugly head back through the haze of excitement. There was no bar, just cozy tables and a few booths. And, he noted, they were headed for the one set in the front window. "Um, come here often?"

Sherlock raised a brow as they settled into their seats and the young waiter placed menus before them. "Really, John. How banal."

"Oi, it's either that or 'I like spaghetti.' Between the two, I opted for the least idiotic. Though, I suppose by admitting I had to choose, that really didn't help me out." He was surprised by the low chuckle and wide grin from Sherlock, quickly tamped down. "So...you didn't answer my question." John made a point to peruse the menu rather than look at Sherlock, afraid that he might be making actual doe eyes at the man. He felt as if they had leapt from a not-quite-date to date two or three, sitting in a quaint little bistro in a cozy booth and... oh, lord, was that Sherlock's foot on his ankle?

"Often enough," Sherlock sighed, leaning back as a florid, effusive man came over and gushed over him, offering a 'romantic' candle, and bustled off with promises of a comped meal. Looking mildly chagrined, Sherlock muttered, "I believed this was his evening off but apparently, Angelo is more hands-on of late, since firing his last line cook."

John smiled, feeling almost overwhelmed. "Mind if I ask a question?"

"I find it's best to simply ask, rather than set up the question and attempt to appear deferential. Really, if I said that yes, I did mind, how would you respond? Not favorably, I'm sure."

John frowned at that. "Fine, then. How did we go from just getting a drink together to sitting in a restaurant with a candle on the table?" Sherlock looked up sharply, his gaze intense and flaying. John fiddled with the stem of his wine glass and wished that he had his food already, something to distract him as Sherlock peered.

"Do you object?"

Something in the other man's tone made John grow still and finally meet Sherlock's gaze. "No. Not at all."

Sherlock's smile was back, quick and fleeting. He opened his mouth to speak and, just as suddenly, snapped it shut. "Ha! Of course!"

John was not quite sure what was happening, just that there was a flurry of movement, a shout from his (apparent) date, and he was running after Sherlock, shouting apologies and trying his damnedest to keep up.

John leaned heavily on the counter, fighting to keep his eyes open. The evening hadn't gone how he'd expected, but... He yawned widely and stretched, popping his back and neck before realizing that Mitch was talking. "Huh?"  
"How'd the date go?"  
"It...it was mad," he sighed, smiling. "I don't even know how to begin." He rocked back on his heels and shook his head. "He's coming by today on my lunch break." He felt giddy as a teenager and was forcibly reminded of his first girlfriend coming to visit him at work, sneaking 'round back of the chippy and snogging near the skip until his boss hollered at him to come back on shift.

"Ooooooh, Watson," Mitch sing-songed. "Both Holmes boys after you...whatever will you do?"

"Oh, smeg!" John let his head drop to the countertop and groaned. He'd forgotten all about Mycroft Holmes and the fitting!

"Inventive use of swear words," Mitch laughed. "Oi, when's your lunch again?"

"Half past. Why?"

"Looks like you're taking it early. Himself is here."

John looked up in time to see Sherlock throw the door open and stride in as if he were a conquering hero, a familiar (and forgotten) object tucked beneath his arm. "John," he said by way of greeting, pausing to nod once, dismissively, at Mitch. "I was going to wait a few more hours but Angelo brought this by last night and I thought you might need it." He held out the plain, utilitarian wooden walking stick he had purchased to replace the hospital issue one,at Harry's insistance, the day he started work at the shop. "I see the limp isn't as bad as all that," Sherlock added, smirking.

John took the walking stick sheepishly, the forgotten pain in his leg flairing to life with his embarrassment. "Um, it comes and goes."

"Psychosomatic injuries do that," Sherlock agreed, stepping into John's minimal personal space.

"How did--"

"Something else was missed last night," Sherlock went on, cutting John off. "Something I'd hoped to remember."

John found himself struck silent as Sherlock's hands come to rest gently at his shoulders, thumbs brushing his neck, sliding up to trace the edge of his jaw. His heart was hammering so fast and so hard that he was certain he was on the verge of fainting as he swayed into Sherlock's arms, his own hands moving to rest carefully on slender hips and expensive fabric. Sherlock's lips soundless moved, a wordless and silent entreaty as they closed the distance between the two of them. John's eyes fluttered closed but not before catching sight of Sherlock's water color eyes sliding shut. It was not a deep and passionate kiss, but it was _wonderful_ , sending blood thrumming in John's veins as he caught Sherlock's full upper lip between his own, thinner ones and Sherlock's fingers slid to clasp behind John's neck. He sighed through his nose as Sherlock's tongue darted out to sample his lip, but a heavy, throat-clearing rattle from Mitch set them apart, both staring at one another and breathing a shade too hard for innocence. "Sorry, mate," Mitch murmured, "but Harry's coming and she looks angry as a hornet."

Sherlock stepped back, smoothed his hands over his lapels and tugged his jacket down with a rueful smirk, well aware of the broken line of his trousers. John felt himself blush and did the same, glad that he could get behind the counter before Harry saw him. Sherlock moved to examine a display of hats as Harry swung around the corner from the back office, a scowl set on her features and her hair standing at angles as if she had raked her fingers through it repeatedly. "John! What the Hell are you--" She paused, scowl slipping into a mock-smile. "Mister Holmes. So nice to see you."

"Miss Watson." He scanned her from head to toe and returned her fake smile. "So sorry about the impending divorce."

John's eyes went wide and Harry's jaw dropped. "I...I'm sorry, what?"

"No, your brother didn't tell me. I didn't know until I saw you, actually." He glanced at John. "And if you're going to yell at him about last night, I assure you that he was every bit the gentleman and I am not going to take my business from your shop."

"Actually," Harry gritted out, her good will fading fast, "this has to do with your brother. John, you're late to your appointment."

"He's early," John protested, seeing Sherlock go very still and blank. "The fitting wasn't until one!"

"Oh," Mitchell said faintly. "Um, Mister Holmes' assistant was by earlier. She...she rescheduled for noon." He smiled sickly and guilty-looking. "Sorry."

"Right," Sherlock said tightly. "John, Miss Watson," he nodded sharply, turned and strode from the shop without a backwards glance.

John felt sick, gathering his kit for the fitting with halting, unsure hands. Why was Sherlock suddenly so angry? That kiss... How could he suddenly go so cold after that? He glanced up at Harry and raised a brow. "I'm on my way," he muttered. "I'll make apologies."

"John," she said, coming close and keeping her voice low and tight, "you've been messing up a lot lately. I can't have that. We need to talk when you get back. I'm worried about your performance."

Numbly, he nodded, and went to meet the beautiful woman standing by the black sedan, Sherlock nowhere in sight on the otherwise empty street.


	6. Chapter 6

John had long ago learned how to compartmentalize when it came to work. It had served him well in the RAMC when he had to focus on triage, on playing Saint Peter to wounded soldiers and deciding who received the most urgent care and who was too far gone to save with their limited resources. It had been a keen fact in his favor when he was in university and his girlfriend had broken up with him the day before revisions his final year and he needed to focus on his studies and not the gaping maw that had been his heart. He had long been able to filter out his anxieties and concerns while he had an important task and Mycroft Holmes' at-home fitting was no different, in John's mind, than triage or revisions. He paid no mind to the pretty assistant sitting by the study door, her eyes glue to her Blackberry, or to the young man flitting in and out with files for the elder Holmes brother to sign and the occasinal hushed-voice phone conversation near the gothic monstrosity of a desk. Finally, after what felt like years, John wrote down the last measurement, put away his tape and chalk and replaced the look books and sample binders into his carry bag. "Well, Mister Holmes," he said with forced cheer, "that's it for this visit. I'll be giving you a call in a few days with an update on the order and, barring any complications with suppliers for the fabric and with the tailors, the first part will be ready in two weeks."

"How was your date with my brother, John?"

John paused in the process of closing up his travel case. "Pardon me?" He wanted to say _It's none of your goddamned business!_ or _What date?_ but he had a feeling that the elder Holmes knew every detail down to what kind of pants John had worn on the off chance Sherlock might see them that evening.

"Sherlock leads an exciting life, by some estimations." Mycroft did not even look at John, opting instead to sit behind his desk and began pulling open drawers and removing file folders and what looked to be a checkbook. "I worry about him. Constantly. And he seems to find you interesting enough to bring you along on one of his little outings." He looked up to meet John's startled, blank gaze with a small smile and a head tilt as if he were examining a slightly hysterical child. "What is the expression used? Ah, yes. I know you're near skint, Doctor Watson. Your tremor prevents you from returning to the operating theatre and you are unable to find any but the most limited locum work. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't leave your sister's shop. But you also know things aren't going as well as they might. She's going to let two employees go, and soon. And you're likely one of them, especially given the recent mistakes." His smile grew sharper, vulpine. "You'd be an example to the others-if she'd sack her own brother, no one is safe."

"Right." John picked up his bag and nodded once, curtly. "I'll be going then, Mister Holmes. Someone from the store will be calling in a few days."

"I can make life easier for you, John," Mycroft called before John even reached the door. "In exchange for information, I will give you any sum you can name. Enough to pay for a nice flat in the city, pay off a few of those debts..." John didn't have to look to see the smirk so evident in Mycroft's voice. "All I want is to make sure Sherlock is...well."

"So in exchange for dating your brother-supposing he even wants to see me again-you will give me an obscene amount of money and all I have to do is fill in the blanks on his life for you?" John did turn then, smiled ferally at Mycroft and shook his head. "With all due respect, and since I am apparently going to be sacked soon, bugger off, Mister Holmes." John did not linger, the slam of the door in his wake cutting off anything else the elder Holmes might have said. He was in a red fog all the way to the pavement, ignoring the pretty assistant who led him to the front door and the earnest one who hailed him a taxi. He fumed quietly in his anger until they reached the shop and he tried to pay, only to discover that Holmes had somehow managed to cover that tab without John knowing. "Fucking fantastic," he muttered, slamming the cab door shut and stalking towards the shop. It was nearly closing time and he had one appointment before he could go to his bedsit, eat his toast and beans and glare at the wall for a few hours before finally falling asleep. He stopped at the door to Watson and Halloran, feeling suddenly very tired. If Harry sacked him, how was he going to pay for that specialty bolt? How was he going to make rent? And how the bloody Hell was he going to eat? He took a deep, nasal breath, squared his shoulders, and walked into the lion's den.

Sherlock rolled the small Canadian coin over his knuckles, back and forth, a bit of slight of hand that amused children and drunks, and stared at the front door of Watson and Halloran. John looked angry, tired...worn. He felt an odd twist in his breast at that last idea and pocketed the coin with a frown. He wanted to know what Mycroft had said, what John had said in return. He wanted, no matter how he lied to himself, to believe that John wasn't going to be seduced by power and money. He saw the joy, the pleasure, on John's face as they ran through the streets, the way he forgot his limp and tremor and just laughed at morbid things, clutching at his sides as he tried to breathe and grinned up at Sherlock. "No," Sherlock murmured to himself, "he won't take Mycroft's money..."

"Mister Holmes!"

Sherlock looked up to see the fellow John worked with approaching from the diretion of the coffee shop two doors down. "Yes?"

"Waiting for John?" He gave Sherlock a sly smile and glanced at the front of the shop. "He's got a late night tonight-Miss Watson is having him do inventory. He just doesn't know yet."

"Ah. And how long does that last?"

"About six hours," Mitch shrugged. "Though John is quick so maybe four."

"All alone, in the shop," Sherlock murmured, a plan springing to life. "Thank you, Mitchell. Tell John I said hello." He smile his best fake smile and turned on his heel, doing his best not to flat out run to the cab rank.


	7. Chapter 7

John rolled his shoulders, wincing when something issued a wet, cracking sensation near his neck. Harry had been well on her way to soused by the close of the day and John hadn't felt like arguing with her, instead seeing her into a cab and locking the shop door behind her before heading into the storage room. Now, five hours later, it was near eleven and he was exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally, having finally shut off his phone and hoping that Harry got the message and stopped calling to alternately check on him and rail at him. If she fired him, he thought, there's worse things. He could find a job somewhere, anywhere, maybe at some small school for the horsey set, seeing to posh children's skinned knees and hurt feelings. Or just suck it up and get a job at Tesco's, he mused, ignoring the warmth spreading up his neck at that thought. _On one hand, a job is a job and money is money. Honest work is better than no work. But if any old school mates or colleagues see me..._ He was dragged out of his thoughts by a loud rapping on the outer door. "Who the Hell..."

Sherlock stood under the dim light done up to look like a Victorian gas lamp, glaring into the dark shop. He raised his fist to knock again but John threw the door open before he could make good on the action. "You're late."

John scowled. "Hello to you, too. I'm working."

Sherlock looked past him, into the shop, and raised a brow pointedly. "Alone?"

John's scowl lessened but he still looked annoyed. "Come in, then," he sighed, stepping aside. "I'm good as fired anyway."

"Mycroft--"

"Nothing to do with your brother," John interrupted, cutting Sherlock off at the pass. "What can I do for you?" _I know of a nice, soft bolt of silk in the back..._

Sherlock seemed to read his thoughts; he smiled and tilted his head to one side, considering. "First things first. Did you accept my brother's offer?"

John didn't feign ignorance. "No."

"Hmm. You could use the money," Sherlock said, voice pitched in a way that was designed to tempt the listener to sin. "He no doubt offered you an obscene sum. You could call him, let him know that you've changed your mind..."

" _No,_ Sherlock. I'm not taking a bribe and spying on you!" John sighed, scrubbed his hand across his face and made an impatient 'wait here' gesture before leaving Sherlock in the main area of the store and going to lock up the storage area and make sure the alarms were set for the night. "I'm exhausted," he said, coming back into the showroom. "I want to go home, have some tea and go to bed."

"I'll get us a cab."

John could only stare as Sherlock let himself out of the store and headed towards the taxi rank. After two breaths, he hurried after him, locking up and activating the front door alarm as he went. Sherlock was quiet for the entire cab ride to John's flat, staring out of the window and ignoring John's few attempts at conversation. When they reached their destination, Sherlock unfolded from the cab like a gangling crow taking flight and handed the driver far too many notes before preceding John up the front steps and waiting at the door. "Um, right," John muttered, giving the cabbie a tight smile and following Sherlock at a much slower pace. "Look," he said as he reached Sherlock's side, fishing his keys out and resolutely not looking at the detective, nervous about what would meet his gaze, "if you came back here with me just to break things off before they've begun, I'd much rather do it out here than inside."

Sherlock huffed a sigh of impatience and grabbed the keys from John, unlocking the door and shoving him inside in almost one smooth movement. "You're an idiot. Most people are-don't be offended. But you," he punctuated his words with a push, John's back hitting the wall with a soft thud as Sherlock reached behind them to lock the door, "are a special kind of idiot."

"Oi," John breathed, trying for annoyed and missing by a mile. Sherlock was close and it was all John could do not to close his eyes under the intensity of the gaze he was receiving. Sherlock seemed to be memorizing his face, lingering on his lips, then his chin. A breath and they brushed together, chest to chest. Another and their hands, hanging by their sides, touched one another's bodies with the lightest of caresses. "This is real," John said, laughing shakily.

"Do you know that you say that aloud?" Sherlock didn't give him a chance to reply. He pushed against John, a growling declaration of desire low in his throat as their lips met. John gasped, muffled by Sherlock's mouth, thoughts becoming a pleasantly blurry haze devoid of worry and stress as he pressed back, fantasies he'd had for months suddenly bursting into vivid color behind his eyelids. He didn't care that his arousal was so obvious and Sherlock must surely feel it at his hip. He arched his back and Sherlock chuckled, sliding his hands down to cup John's backside and pull him even closer. "John," he said softly when they broke for air. "I'm not a very conventional man."

"Is this your way of saying that you don't subscribe to the 'wait until the third date before deciding' idea?" Sherlock just grinned, a lopsided and eye-crinkling expression that did funny things to John's knees and stomach. "Right. Um, upstairs, then?"

Sherlock nodded once, sharply, and took John's hand, not waiting for the other man to catch his breath. "Time's wasting, John. We have much to discuss."

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

It was rather like being watched by a wild dog, John mused, remembering the packs that used to roam the desert in Afghanistan. Sherlock's feline features were at odds with his posture, tense and alert and ready to leap, like some great wolf, teeth bared just slightly as he sucked hissing breaths in, watching John make tea that both men knew would go undrunk. "So," John said, proud of the fact that he wasn't shaking with anticipation, "what do we have to discuss?"

"John," he chided. An entire lecture rested in that single syllable.

"Right. Um. Well, then..." He stepped forward, but Sherlock _lunged_ , grabbing John by the arms and pulling him close, turning so they tumbled onto the sofa. The coffee table received several kicks and finally gave up it's position to stage a tactical retreat across the rug. "Oh, God!" John jumped just a little as Sherlock's cool fingers wiggled their way through the placket of his shirt, tweaking one nipple before scraping lightly through coarse, blond hair there.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, barely breaking away from the attention he was lavishing on John's jaw. "Before you ask again, this is really happening."

John laughed, Sherlock's answering chuckle a tickle against his throat as John worked his hand between them and tugged at the silky green fabric of Sherlock's shirt. "Off," he panted. "I've wondered what you felt like for ages now."

"And you just want to feel my stomach? I'm disappointed." He glanced up at John and grinned quickly, fingers moving from John's chest to help in unbuttoning his own shirt. Chest bared, he reached up to still John's hands. "Don't look so nervous," Sherlock chided. "Just a moment. This is important."

John nodded, swallowing thickly as he looked down at Sherlock's narrowed gaze. "You're married? Straight? Both?"

"Ha. It is to laugh. No, John, I just want to make sure this is what you want, that this isn't too fast..."

"You have _no_ bloody clue," John laughed. "Not a one, Mister Detective." After that, clothes seemed to fly off, Sherlock's growl at John's teasing comment the only sound other than rough breaths and the sussuration of skin on fabric for several minutes. _Bloody Hell, this is really real! Really real and oh my God, he's leaking against my hip and oh Jesus, I have to..._ John didnt give himself time to second guess and hesitate. He broke off the kiss and slid down, until he was crouched on the floor between Sherlock's splayed thighs. "Let me," he whispered, tugging open the zips on Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock nodded, head falling back against the sofa as John worked him free from his pants.

" _Fuck_! Bloody, buggering, fuck!"

John felt a twinge of pride mingling in with his arousal and want,the idea that he had reduced the typically eloquent Sherlock Holmes to a swearing, panting mass just by taking that thick, lovely cock into his mouth... John closed his eyes and sucked, lapping at the pre-cum with the tip of his tongue, palming his own prick when Sherlock groaned.

"John, John, John! Oh, Hell... I knew you'd be so good at this, Oh God..." Sherlock's normally low voice had gone breathey and soft as John worked his cock with his mouth, sucking and lapping, using one hand to fondle his balls and occasionally press a finger against Sherlock's perineum. Sherlock's hips lifted minutely, and John's cock twitchd in response. "Come for me," he said, lifting his mouth off of Sherlock for just a second. "Come for me, Sherlock."

"Mouth. Now." Sherlock's hand came to rest on the back of John's neck but he did not push down. John was only a little disappointed, but if his luck held, maybe next time could see Sherlock being more...commanding. Even if it didn't, he would just be thrilled knowing there _was_ a next time, he reminded himself, taking Sherlock as far into his throat as he could, then swallowing around his thick cock.

Sherlock came with a breathless shout, arching his back and shuddering hard as he filled John's mouth and spilled down his throat. John had barely swallowed Sherlock's load before he found himself flat on his back on the floor, Sherlock's tongue in his mouth, tasting the two of them together, John's lips and teeth and tongue and Sherlock's come. "Let me breathe," John managed to gasp, laughing, still hard as granite.

"If you must," Sherlock groused, hand going to John's prick. Long fingers teased John's foreskin, making him gasp and shiver, before Sherlock begain stroking him in earnest, pausing only to lick his hand for lubrication and then redoubling his efforts. "John, I'm looking for a flatmate."

"Sherlock! Now?" He couldn't quite think straight, his brain pleasanly fuzzed by arousal and impending release. He _wanted_ to focus on the strong, slender fingers working him like a virtuoso but instead, Sherlock's voice rumbled in his ear, distracting him with decidedly unsexy things. Rent sharing, violin playing, a skull. "Wait, slow down! No, not your hand, goddamn it I am so fucking close! Stop with the flat share for a minute!" Sherlock huffed, sounding distinctly petulant, but didn't stop stroking John. "Close, close," John groaned, feeling suspended at the edge of pleasure, wanting to come so badly that it ached into his bones. Sherlock grinned against his neck and pressed two fingers _hard_ against John's perineum. John thought, later, that he may have literally saw stars for a moment as he came, Sherlock's name a rough, loud moan that he, frankly, didn't care if his neighbors heard. He lay on his own floor in a mild daze, wincing in surprise when Sherlock began dabbing them both clean with John's discarded jumper. "Oi, wool and testicles don't mix."

"Mmmm. I was going to offer to lick you clean but I don't think either of us are young enough to have such a short refractory period."

"You make technical words sexy."

"Poor John. You've fallen victim to postcoital loss of brain function."

"Oh, yes, talk condescending to me. I love it." And, god help him, he did, so long as it was Sherlock, using that affectionate tone that he'd only fantasized about, that he thought only existed in his imagination. "Why..."

"The flatshare? It crossed my mind."

"During a handjob?" He opened one eye. "Really?"

"Mmm. I was considering how much I'd enjoy waking up with my cock in your mouth and sharing a flat would make that possible more often than not."

John felt his heart stutter to a halt, the kick into high gear. "Are you asking me to move in with you? Like...partners?"

Sherlock heaved himself back up onto the sofa and carefully avoided John's startled stare. "There's a second bedroom. This," he waved a hand to indicate the space between them, "is new so I understand the desire to take things slow, as the saying goes."

"So move in with you, but date? Like we weren't flatmates?"

"Mmmm."

John sighed. "I'm likely getting fired soon. I'll need to move someone less dear." He noticed Sherlock's quick, disapproving glance around the bedsit and frowned. "Don't start."

"My flat is reasonable. I have a special deal with the landlady due to a favor I did for her some years ago. You can afford half."

John pushed himself up next to Sherlock. "Why me?"

"Why not?"

John knew that an answer would not be forthcoming, not yet, so he just nodded. "Right. Well." He laced his fingers with Sherlock's and was a bit surprised by the tension he felt there. "Alright?"

Sherlock gently disentangled his fingers from John's and began idly stroking the doctor's thigh. "I must confess... I've desired you for some months, John. I...have fantasized about you, what you'd be like in bed, having you with me on cases..."

John wanted to shout, to laugh, but instead, he asked, "What?"

"Oh, sod it. John, I've had a crush on you for a while now."

The distaste with which Sherlock infused that one word made John giggle, and once he started, he couldn't stop. Under Sherlock's scowl, he waved a hand and finally gasped, "Oh, God, we need to talk."

By the time dark was creeping into dawn, John had told him everything, from his own crush to the bolt of cloth to Harry's drinking to... well, not quite all about Afghanistan, but about his scar, about his last days in the RAMC. Sherlock ended up curled around him like a cat, no trace of the wolf from earlier, and John felt as if he were still in a dream. "This is so fast," he murmured for the third time in as many hours.

"We've had months of foreplay, John. Do you think I honestly needed that many shirts and pocket squares?"

"Well, you _do_ dress awfully posh..." John's laugh was smothered in a kiss, and then sighs, and they both found that round two was achievable after all.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock waited in John’s flat, sure to his bones that he would not be waiting long. He had watched John dress that morning, putting on his ‘work uniform’ (a suit that would be considered quite nice by certain sets but Sherlock could see it was not as well made as it pretended to be: the break in the trousers came too soon, the seams on the jacket were not straight, the edging on the lapel was off-color), tying shoes that were on their second--no, third--set of soles, polished within an inch of their inexpensive little lives. He kept his eyes half-closed, feigning sleep as John went about his morning routine, smoothing and straightening, disappearing from the room and, from the sound of things, making toast and tea. Sherlock remained still, taking in what bit of the room he could see, cataloging for later. It wouldn’t take much, he mused, to move John into the flat on Baker Street. It could be done in just a few hours if he called in a favor to that lorry driver he’d help free from burglary charges... John appeared in the doorway then and just stood there, staring. Sherlock did not open his eyes fully, waiting for John to call his bluff, to say anything, even tell him to leave (he knew John would do no such thing but still...) John hesitated for a moment more then, with a sigh that might have harbored a laugh, turned and left, the door to the flat softly closing a few moments later. Sherlock had waited, breath slow and careful, for several minutes before determining that John was truly not returning before sitting up and letting the duvet fall to his hips. Love bites stark on his chest in the slowly brightening room made him smile, as did the pleasant ache in his limbs and jaw. John had been quite enthusiastic and Sherlock, in his turn, had demonstrated to John that no, he was not kidding or lying or just passing the time. “You’ve driven me mad these past months,” he had informed John. “I need to show you, don’t I? You’re not the only one with fantasies, _Doctor_ Watson.” And then proceeded to ignore John’s grimace at the title and show him just what he had thought of doing with that hideous purple tie John wore to dinner.

Now, it was barely an hour after John had left. Taking into account his walking speed (slower than his usual stride, still limping a bit but had left the cane this morning) and the fact (yes, fact) that Harry would be letting him go that morning, Sherlock reckoned that he had about half an hour more before John returned. He considered packing for John, but the bed was really far too comfortable and besides, Lestrade was truly bothering him with all of the texts about those ridiculous mock-suicides. He fired off several replies, and a warning to his brother regarding the threatening noises Mycroft had made regarding offering John employment, and fell back against the pillows just in time to hear the flat’s door open and shut with a bit more force than he’d expected. John was muttering under his breath, just low enough for Sherlock to make out tone but no words. He could hear when John realized that he was not alone in the flat, when he saw Sherlock’s shoes and suit coat still in the living room. A moment later, he was in the bedroom door, expression on his face somewhere between amusement and confusion. “Um, hi.”

Sherlock raised a brow and settled into the pillows. “Hello.”

“So... I’m unemployed.” John looked miserable but was trying valiantly to appear nonchalant. He was, Sherlock thought with a twist of amusement mingled with protectiveness, failing miserably. “Harry let me go since I’m her brother and expendable, it seems. Mitch is Halloran’s daughter’s nephew or some rot, and Stephen has some tropical disease and is out ill so they can’t sack him without him raising a fuss about unfair practices.” John stepped forward as if he were weighted at the ankles, slow and plodding until he reached the end of the bed, and then he sank down onto the mattress with a sigh. “Sorry, I should have asked... Would you like some breakfast? You looked so peaceful earlier that I hated to wake you.” He paused, worrying his lower lip for a moment, then said, “And I thought that maybe you’d be gone when I got back so I didn’t leave anything out.”

Sherlock raised a brow. “Did you want me to be gone?”

“Not especially.”

He grinned, a quick and vulpine. “That’s good, then.” He patted the bed next to him as if he owned it and when John sighed anew and scooted up next to him, felt a flutter he had been trying to ignore in his belly settle into warmth. “You remember I was looking for a new flat?”

“Um, yeah.” John’s face went from concerned about his own future to annoyed at Sherlock’s apparent lack of care, but he did his best to hide it. Failing, Sherlock noted, again. “Oh,” he said after Sherlock merely raised his other brow. “Sherlock, we’ve just... I mean, I don’t even know what to call us other than My Fantasy Come True!”

“It has two bedrooms,” Sherlock said alluringly. “You can have one and I’ll take the other.” Maintain some semblance of ‘other’ for John, some sense that he was not rushing headlong into something. Sherlock could barely contain his urge to bounce with excitement as he watched John’s (open, expressive, handsome, lovely) face shift from disbelief, to refusal, to temptation and finally... “Well?”

“How much?”

Sherlock named a low figure, less than half of the already reduced rent Mrs Hudson was offering him, and added, “I once did a favor for the landlady and she couldn’t pay for my services at the time. She’s offered me a lower rate as recompense.” He smiled invitingly. “I’m in need of an assistant. Remember the other night, John? Running through London, chasing danger... you miss danger, John, and this isn’t just a lark. This is _real._

“I was thinking,” John said slowly, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes as he fiddled with the duvet. “I was thinking of putting in for some locum work at local surgeries, get my beak wet again, as it were... I miss being a doctor.”

Sherlock bit back on his first urge, that which was to snap at John, tell him not to be stupid. He knew enough to realize that things were still fragile and one false move would snap that tenuous thread. Months of learning John, reading him like a well loved book, and finally he was where he wanted (mostly) to be--he couldn’t smash things with his words and temper. Wait, he told himself, until that little thread was a thicker rope. “Locum means it won’t be full time, correct? When you have the time, then you can come along with me.” And if Sherlock had his way, John would always have the time...

John huffed a laugh, finally meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “You’re forgetting that I know you, you great berk. You’re selfish, mad, and a health risk. But, god help me, show me the flat. Let’s see this place.”

Sherlock leapt from the bed like a jack in the box and clapped his hands together once. “Brilliant! We’ll get some lunch on the way!”

“Lunch? Sherlock, it’s barely ten!” John followed the (very naked) bobbing form of Sherlock into the living room. “Besides, I thought you were rather hit or miss in your diet.”

“I rarely say no to tiramisu, John.” Sherlock shrugged into his coat and flashed another smile at John. “We can move your things in by nightfall!”

“I haven’t said yes yet!”

“You will.” Sherlock ignored John’s snort and strode towards the door, only to stop short. “John, why is there a large bolt of purple cloth there?”

“Um. Yeah. About that. Do you need more shirts?”

 


	10. Chapter 10

John realized, with a start, that it had been a month since he moved in with Sherlock, transferring his meager belongings from the tiny flat near his now-former job to the larger one on Baker Street. Sherlock had not been part of the move, shouting something about a triple homicide in Islington, wasn’t it fantastic, and leaving John standing in his (soon to be former) doorway with an armful of flattened boxes and a growing backache. Mitch had helped as much as he could, taking half a day from Watson and Halloran to assist with the packing but hurrying back at midday. “Sorry, mate,” he’d muttered. “I...I have to take up your old clients.”

John had simply nodded. “Right,” he said. “Well, ta, then.” And he was alone with his things, with the last bits of his old life, staring down the barrel of something new... He couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

That had been four weeks ago, a month in which he had found a locum position at a rather nice surgery, renewed contact with Stamford (something else for which to thank Sherlock, he reminded himself) and had more danger and excitement and _purpose_ than he cared to consider. He felt...alive. Well and truly alive. Stretching out on the sofa, John flipped on the telly and surfed about before settling on Dave and reruns of _Top Gear_ , ignoring the bolt of purple cloth that had been positioned so he would have no choice but to see it if he looked towards the telly or kitchen. Harry wouldn’t take it back, couldn’t take it back really, and John had no use for all of that fabric. Sherlock’s shirt had been made from the bolt, delivered personally by Mitch two weeks ago and worn frequently since, but the rest of the fabric was...lingering. Taunting John. “Oh, shut up,” he muttered, turning off the telly. The fabric still made him feel embarrassed, reminded him of the months he lusted for Sherlock, daydreamed, fantasized and damn near drooled over him.

“And all that time,” Sherlock said from the doorway, “I was thinking of you, too.”

“I didn’t even hear you get in,” John replied by way of greeting, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock knew what he was thinking. It had been his expression, probably, or the way he tilted his head, or perhaps because John frequently glared at the bolt and called it names under his breath.

“Boring. Waste of my time.” Sherlock shed his coat scarf and gloves in a flurry of economical movements, eyes never leaving John’s face. “Wanted to get back to you, actually.”

John felt his cheeks heat and he bit his lower lip reflexively. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“Why do you think?” Sherlock’s voice was lower now, his gait predatory as he closed the distance between himself and John. “This morning.”

John’s cock twitched in sudden interest. That morning had been, in a word, amazing. The sex had been consistently good with occasional forays into mindblowing since they first began sleeping together, but that morning, with the discovery that, if John was on top, just _so_ ,back to Sherlock and leaning just a bit... Well, Mrs Hudson blushed furiously when they both saw her a few hours later and John made a note to send her flowers. Often. “Ah, well...if you’re up to it...” _Yes, please, now!_

Sherlock smirked. “Not yet but getting there.” He slid his arms around John’s waist and leaned in close. “You?”

“I could certainly be persuaded.” His lips brushed Sherlock’s in a kiss that, even for it’s brevity, was anything but chaste. A strange sensation against his ribs made John pull back and frown. “Are you vibrating? I didn’t think we were at the toys stage yet.”

Sherlock swore under his breath and pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. “Lestrade made me switch it to vibrate whilst in his office. He seems to object to my ringtone.”

“Really? He doesn’t like _I fought the law and the law won_? Strange, that.”

“I fully intend to change it back, now that I have access to cold cases again,” Sherlock muttered, reading the text. “Oh... oh! Mycroft, I should hate you...”

“What now?” John sighed wearily, sinking back into the sofa, his nascent plans for the evening dying on the vine.

Sherlock looked up, vulpine grin sending sharp spikes of need into John’s belly. “I think he’s trying to apologize for that stunt he pulled with you last month. He’s found us a nice murder.”

“And...you’re alright with accepting his case?”

Sherlock grinned even more broadly. “Mmm. It hasn’t happened yet! Come on, John! Solving a murder before it happens... brilliant!”

John huffed a sigh, the sound turning into a giggle. “Mad. You’re mad. I’m mad. Might as well have a tea party.”

“John! Are you coming?” Sherlock shouted from the stairs.

“On my way!”


End file.
